Heat
by jetaway
Summary: Your sanity was never yours to keep, Draco. My own, has been sacrificed as well, for this is the game we’re born to play, of wit and wiles, of lies and half-truths. We can’t stop, even if we wanted to. True love, what a trivial thing.


**Heat**

She was beautiful, that much was true. Her grace was unparalleled and she could hold her own ground in a battle of the wits. Any man would be thrilled to have her and the furtive glances sent her way supported this notion. However, whilst she was elegant and educated, beautiful and petite, I did not love her. Perhaps in a life before this one we had loved, danced the dance of lovers and embraced in passionate joy, but in this one, I could only note her loveliness, not appreciate it.

Yes, I did note the smooth consistency of her pale skin, the hardly noticeable dimples that appeared only when she was truly smiling. Her _real_ smiles were rare, but I was one of the few fortunate who had seen one of them. I appreciated her beauty as one would appreciate the musculature of a finely bred thoroughbred horse. One cannot _love_ a horse no matter how loyal, charming, or exquisite that horse may be.

So, when I asked for her hand in marriage it was not out of love, but out of the deep companionship that I felt toward her. I would die for her. But, I couldn't love her, no matter how hard I tried. My heart was taken long ago, and in hindsight I realize that before I was painfully oblivious to the fact. This weak heart of mine was no longer mine to give, it was _his_ to claim.

Of course we had known each other since we were young. His mother was a woman from high pureblood society, and though the rumors surrounding her swirled in a constant haze she nevertheless remained a fixture amongst the arrogant and rich of the Wizarding World. I wouldn't say that we were friends from the start. In fact, that would be a pitiful lie.

To be honest, we hated each other for the first fourteen years of our existence. My first memory of him was during a dinner party thrown at our manor. The sprawling grounds were well-lit and the house elves were carrying a constant stream of delectable goods, sure to fit the tastes of any and every wizard or witch. Father had just purchased a brand new toy broom for me, much to Mother's dismay. I was showing it off, zooming past various guests, and weaving my way between an array of legs and tables.

That's when I saw him. Mother was talking to another woman, strikingly beautiful with the longest and thickest mane of black hair I had ever seen. It was the hair that fascinated me most. Though similar to Aunt Bellatrix's it was much shinier and far longer, almost waist length. The boy clinging to this fair-haired maiden was equally as striking. I would have mistaken him for the woman's younger brother had I not overheard their conversation.

"My, your son is growing up so fast."

The woman responded, her voice was husky but still feminine. At the time, I wasn't sure how to describe it, but now there would be no other word for it other than seductive. "As with young Draco, Narcissa, our boys are growing up so fast. I believe this is the first time they'll have met?"

I had dropped by broom and ran over to Mother, gripping her hand as I peered at the other child. Looking down at me, she smiled, "Draco, don't be shy now. This is Blaise. He's four years old as well."

I stared at him suspiciously and he leveled me with an equally guarded glare. Even my four year old self knew he was trouble, trouble from the start.

Our mothers forced us together simultaneously, as they resumed their conversation. Oblivious to our actions yet confident that we would somehow get along splendidly, oh how they were wrong.

His first words to me were, "I like your broom."

"Thanks." I responded, but before I could boast about the broom's superiority in not only maneuvering but speed, a speech Father had given me when he had first handed it over; he had already reached over toward it.

Now, until this very moment I had not allowed anyone else to touch this precious broom of mine. They could look as long as they want as long as they kept their grubby fingers off. Apparently, this Blaise boy had not caught on to this message. I had to take dire action.

"Don't touch it!" I screamed, flailing my arms as I charged him. "That's mine! LET GO!" Tugging on the broom, he pulled back as well. Just as I got the upper hand on our battle of tug-of-war, he pulled the broom particularly hard and before I knew it, it had simply snapped in half.

Angry would be an understatement, I was completely livid. And to keep a long story short, the night ended with a stony silence between us and more than a couple bruises. The Zabini's would not be invited over for dinner until at least five years later.

It wasn't until a decade later when the two of us finally were able to tolerate each other. A mutual dislike for the next Wizarding prodigy, Potter, had brought us together. And in the rare moments where I was not with Crabbe or Goyle, I spent my times idly chatting with Zabini. He was engaging compared to those lackeys, but there was something about him, an air which he carried himself, that always had me more guarded, more alert than usual.

Sixth year was when we became allies. Not friends though, that mutual trust and understanding was something that no Slytherin could afford to allot at the time. His mother had never joined the Dark Lord. She wasn't opposed to his ideals; Ms. Zabini simply never cared for politics. A learned woman who was too beautiful, she didn't need the Dark Lord's influence to gain power, she already had it.

As the other Slytherins had shied away from me, what not with the Malfoy name in ruins and a death sentence above my head, Zabini had remained neutral. When Crabbe and Goyle had become intolerable, I turned to him. He wasn't unaware of the inner workings of the Death Eater hierarchy, he simply just ignored it. What occurred within the Dark Lord's circle was of little importance or significance to him. It was this mentality that drew me towards him during those dark months.

It wasn't until after the Dark Lord's fall when I saw him again. The tavern was dark and dingy, catering to lowlifes and unseemly sorts. I hated the place, what not with its dingy upholstery and moldy smell, but each Friday I came at eight sharp to drown my sorrows and wallow in self pity. We were fortunate to avoid Azkaban, Mother's little lie had spared us once more.

The storm that was brewing outside, battering the windows of the dingy place, suddenly gusted inside. I turned towards the sudden draft of bitter cold. After five years, that's when I saw him once more. There was a young woman dangling off his arm. Her thick ebony locks fell to the small of her back as she teetered from side to side. He supported her as he made his way near to wear I sat.

Liquid smooth, his voice was refreshing as I turned towards him, watching him attentively as he spoke to the bartender. "I don't suppose you've got some rooms available above?"

With a grunt, the man behind the counter replied. "There's a coupl'a vacancies. Ten galls for a room."

Blaise tossed a coin purse, laden with money, onto the counter. As some knuts and sickles spilled out, the bartender grabbed for the purse greedily.

"Give us two of your best rooms, clean towels and sheets, a fresh water basin, plus a decent breakfast tomorrow. I'll be down in a few, and there better be some damn firewhisky ready for me." Heaving his companion up the stairs of the dingy bar, I watched him go. The years had been good to him. He had taken on his mother's unsettling beauty. His jaw was well defined with a hint of stubble, and his midnight hair was well-groomed and thick.

As he vanished from sight up the stairs, I returned to my drink. Seeing him reminded me of my own loneliness. I craved companionship in any form after being alone for so long. For the next hour or so, I tossed down drink after drink, glancing furtively at the stairway every few minutes. I wanted him to come back down. No, I needed him to; I needed something tangible, another living soul. The façade I had been living for the past few years was crumbling. A simple one-sided encounter with an old classmate had left me second-guessing my reality. Second guessing, the state I was in.

It was the bartender's hurried bumbling that alerted me of his presence. I watched as he leisurely grabbed a stool at the opposite end of the counter. I suppose I must have been staring too long, as he looked my way. A slow realization overtook him as our eyes met. He stood carrying his drink with him, a smirk playing over his face.

"Draco," he murmured as he approached me. "Draco Malfoy, I never would have expected to find you in this place."

"Things change." I muttered in reply, sipping my drink. "Who's the girl you were with?"

Pulling up a stool beside me, he replied. "Bristol's the name. She's quite the piece. Managed to get herself dead drunk, this is as far as I could apparate her without risk of splinching."

"Girlfriend?" I inquired passively. I hadn't had a girlfriend in years, one-night stands yes, but those were inconsequential, just a quick cure for the loneliness.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Merlin, help me, no. Just a friend helping a friend." He leered at me with a sly wink. "Got any _friends_ for yourself?"

Though, he hadn't meant it harshly his words struck me hard. What had I become? Friendless, companionless, I living shadow of the person I once was. My expression must have given away more than I wanted to as his expression sobered as well.

"The years have treated you well." He changed the subject whilst ushering towards the bartender for another round.

I glanced at him, "Likewise to you Zabini."

"No, need for such formalities, Draco. We go way back, I think that warrants us to speak on first name basis."

I suppose I gave him an odd look, though he acted as if he hadn't noticed. Even as kids, we always referred to each other by last name. It was just what we did.

Nevertheless going along with it, I replied, "I suppose, Blaise. It's been a while hasn't it though?"

"Yeah, five years, I've heard through the old grapevine that times have been tough." He placed his hand on my knee, squeezing it reassuringly. "I'm always here, Draco. We aren't kids anymore, and like you said, times have changed."

"I suppose."

A comfortable silence stretched on, as I let my mind wander, a continuous playback of the past few years. I immersed myself in my own thoughts, far from the reality of the dingy tavern. In fact, I hadn't noticed Blaise's actions. His hand had wandered upwards toward my thigh, stroking light circular motions as he watched me, a faint smirk on his lips. I didn't stop him.

That was the first time I awoke next to him, but it would also be the last. Overnight stays, after all, were a rare occurrence. The events of the night before were muddled, clouded over by the haze of deep slumber from which I had just awoken from. He was watching me intently, his dark eyes piercing my own.

"Oh shit." I mumbled, looking at his disheveled appearance as well as the evidence of last night strewn about the room. "Fuck"

I rose quickly, grabbing my clothes from about the room as I muttered to myself. "Fuck." Shirt. "Shit." Pants. "Fucking Shit." Robes. "Fucking Shitty—"

"Draco," he interrupted, climbing from the bed. Robes half-on I watched him, he moved lithely with the grace of a predatory panther. I know realize he was always just like his mother—a beauty meant to be marveled and appreciated from afar, for if you were to get too close he would be lethal. A lesson I had learned far too late, beauty hurts, beauty _kills_. "Why don't you stay," he drawled, "Bristol can take care of herself." He approached me, tugging on my robes, "A repeat venture?" Whispering into my ear, his breath sent shivers through my body, "You seem up to it to me."

I jolted away as he sent me a lecherous grin. "Last night was a mistake. It won't happen again. Goodbye Blaise." And out I walked, away from the tavern, with my mind in a whirl. But, my heart already knew where it wanted to go, _what it wanted_. The mind is a weak organ when compared to the heart, for rational thought hardly wins the battle against raw emotion.

It happened again.

But this time, I was in control. I would win. I had to. I had avoided Blaise like the plague after that one encounter. That rendezvous had left me confused, questioning not only myself but my life. I had managed to pull myself from out of the gutter, get my head in place. To Mother and Father's joy, I returned to the Wizarding social scene, though slightly less prideful, I still carried myself with the air of my upbringing. The Malfoys were back.

It was a dinner party, an acquaintance of an acquaintance's New Years Eve get together. I had a date, some young strapping thing from Scotland. She was delicate and petite with fair features and a soft voice. We had met the week before, and when asked, she had accepted my invitation readily. In fact, she knew him.

"Mr. Zabini," she had called out to him, a sweet smile on her face, "come, and eat with us. You are Elise's good friend! I've heard much about you."

He had immediately strode our way, pulling out the chair next to mine as he greeted my date. I watched him intently, noting the way his lips moved as he spoke. They were supple yet strong, a fact I could note from experience. Though I tried, the events of that night at the tavern were ingrained into my memory for eternity. I could not forget.

My date had wandered off, she had seen an old friend of hers and I had politely excused myself, leaving her to her own devices. He was walking to the private bathroom in the right hallway, past the chandelier and shimmering ice sculpture of the dancing nymph. I caught up with him just as he was closing the door to the washroom.

Raising an eyebrow at me, he said, "I need to freshen up. Do you mind?"

Forcing my way in, I locked the door behind me. I noted the surprised look on his face with a twisted form of self satisfaction. His cocoa skin, dark eyes, the mole to the left of his mouth, and the thick dark hair that had always held my fascination, it was all too much. I pinned up against the wall as my mind reeled. Though the bathroom was chilly and the night was cold, an indescribable heat filled my body.

The wall of the bathroom supporting us was no longer there; instead we were back in the tavern, on the rickety bed. Our movements becoming one as he writhed beneath me in the throes of passion. He was right where I wanted him.

With a new ferocity I attacked his mouth, and he didn't resist. The bathroom was occupied for an hour, and though no one attempted to open it, had they in desperation needed to use that washroom in particular, they would have found quite the shocking sight before them.

We met continuously at random intervals for the next three months. Anywhere, anytime, from early in the morning to late at night, Muggle rest stops and the Ministry of Magic lift, any place was fair game for a quick tryst. All these meetings were in secret, as though we lived double lives. Our façade of normalcy was ever present, we were rich young men, the alcohol, women, and partying was plentiful and we lived up to the stereotype. However, I'm sure that the members of high society had little idea that aside from such activities the two of us were participating in highly frowned upon trysts in their very closets.

As they say, ignorance is bliss.

It was at one of these very events held by the Notts where Blaise first brought it up.

"Have you ever considered that we should tell them?" He gestured at the door of the small room where we had jammed ourselves in to.

I snorted in disdain, rolling my eyes. "Oh, that would go over nicely." I leaned against him, pushing him into the wall as I whispered into his ear. "Besides, where's the fun in that?"

He grinned slyly, pulling me even closer, "Your sarcasm is as sweet as ever." I gripped him tightly. His breath tickled my face, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He smirked. "I…want…you" He kissed me forcefully, claiming my mouth, before yelping back in pain as I bit him, hard, on the lips.

"What the hell was that for?" He whispered at me angrily, his eyes clouded over with anger and annoyance.

"No." I stated simply. He wouldn't have me, not today. His words had sent a wave of fear over me. Even after months of snogging and fondling we had yet to do _the deed_. No way in hell would I submit to him. This game of secrecy and lust that we played was in my control, not the other way around. He wouldn't win; I wouldn't let him. One moment of weakness and confusion had gotten me into this, but while he started the game, I would sure as hell be the one to finish it. I would win, that's how it worked.

"No?" He arched his eyebrow, his dark eyes now lit with amusement. Leaning toward me once more, he murmured against my lips. "I don't think you meant that." His fingers traced their way downward, past my abdomen toward my belt buckle. I involuntarily gasped, a tiny intake of breath, but it was that miniscule action that brought a triumphant grin to his face. He had won. And he knew it.

It was later that night, as I sat respectively with my date, mollified yet discontent, when he walked by. His grin spoke volumes, and all I could do was glower in response. That bastard. He exchanged pleasantries with the girl by my side before slipping a paper undetected my way.

_I win._

I scowled at his retreating back with growing displeasure. I hated him. Yet, why couldn't I stop? The Shrieking Shack, what a vile place, but I knew I'd be there, on time and expectant. Backing out was not an option. Perhaps I had lost, but leaving this game we played was unfathomable until I had won. In the end, I had to win. And until then, I would be restless. Because, winning was _everything_.

The battle went on, the game we played. For two years since that fateful day in that dingy room, we circled each others, intertwined our lies, secrets, and lust. It was a game with no clear cut path to victory, but we both knew that one of us would come out on top. Winning was everything, yet it was the thrill of the chase that kept us coming, that wouldn't let us quit. There was no turning back.

Times had changed.

Somewhere along the lines though, I had fallen, fallen harder than I had ever wanted to. And only now, looking back with the knowledge I have gained, do I realize. The realization wasn't a sudden epiphany, a light bulb which seemingly sprouted above my head, it was a feeling. A feeling beyond description, beyond words—an inhuman emotion, a feeling past mortal comprehension, I fell in love.

Blaise Zabini had stolen my heart, and there was no way to reclaim it as my own. With my fiancé at my side, the warmth, the heat of her body was not enough. My thoughts would stray to him, the passion that burned within me from his very voice. I need him, I relied on him, and I couldn't separate myself from this dangerous cycle. This destructive game and addiction that I knew would tear at me from the inside.

I had believed that I loved her, this fair woman of mine. But, I couldn't, I hadn't. This life, this path now strewn before me, it would be a lie. A sweet lie, a façade and veil placed before the eyes of society, it saddened me to know our marriage was a lie, but what of it? I could not be with him, though I wanted him. Yet, that perhaps was exactly why we came back for more.

We told ourselves that winning was everything; that is why we played, why we spun our tales of lies and intrigue simply for a few bitter hours together. But, I now realize as well, that that was a lie in itself, another half-truth spoken and thought to conceal the true reality of things.

The game wasn't played to win. It was the intrigue, the thrill from hidden trysts, secret messages, winks from across the room—the subtle aspects to the game was what made it what it was and is. The game was about that feeling, the _heat_ spreading everywhere, the indescribable feeling of anticipation and lust, the adrenaline rush before the kill.

I now realize the point of the game wasn't to win. It was to lie, to weave a web of intrigue, to construe the truth, it was a method of entertainment far more potent than any drug—we weren't addicted to the game. We were addicted to the rush, the heat, the thrill that it gave us.

"Draco," he said softly, jolting me from my thoughts, from my memories. I turned towards him, face stoic. "You're going to get married"

I nodded looking at him, my face unwavering as I straightened my attire once more.

He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me. "It doesn't mean we should stop."

I looked at him with a sense of incredulity, "I will have a wife." Even I knew that was a pitiful excuse. As if having a wife would stop this, I had cheated and lied my way into being with him. We both knew we would do anything for even a few hours together. Marriage wouldn't change a thing, except for perhaps the difficulty of it all. Neither of us had any fanciful conceptions of ending up together—it simply was not done.

Blaise gave me a measuring look. "Your sanity was never yours to keep, Draco. My own, as well has been sacrificed, for this is the game we're born to play, of wit and wiles, of lies and half-truths. We can't stop, even if we wanted to. You know that as well as I do. Your wife, though beautiful, knows little of instinct or the feeling that drives us both together."

He was taller than me, and though I had hated it originally, I had now become accustomed to it. Looking, up I questioned him softly. "Love? Is that the feeling?"

Silence spread as he looked down at me, finally he replied. "What is love, Draco? It has no definition; there is no true sense of what it is. But, I suppose that this feeling, this heat that rises from within, this is as close as we'll ever be to love." Pausing slightly, he continued, "I don't think we were ever meant to love, or at least love in the traditional sense. Not us, perhaps ordinary people, have known its tender touch. We weren't made to love, we were meant to play—to enjoy the thrill of the chase. I wouldn't love you if you were my own."

She was beautiful, dressed elegantly in white her gown was simple yet breathtaking. The birds sang sweetly, and the sky was a crystal blue without a cloud. It could not have been any more perfect. And when the time came to say my vows, the words I had so carefully crafted, I spoke without hesitation and without doubt.

"I, Draco Malfoy, take you Astoria Greengrass to be my wife, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our friendship and I will love you today, tomorrow, and forever. You will always have my faith, in whatever you do. May we guide each other through both the difficult and the easy, and may our love and need for each other never die. Our love may not be traditional, but that does not lessen its significance, its poignancy, or its effect on my heart. From our first time together, though I may not have noted it at the time, you have had my heart. The indescribable heat from your touch, your voice, there is no other feeling of its caliber. My heart was always yours and it always will be no matter what it goes through, my heart is yours to keep. As I have given you my heart to keep, so I now give you my life as well."

His eyes had held my own throughout it, and with a nod sent my way, I knew his reply. We were never meant to be, it was never meant to be, but our love for each other was undying. The game, we would still play, there was no doubt of it. But, the feeling of peace, rest, and unconditional love was a feeling we would never experience together. I could only ever experience the heat, a mere figment of love itself, though still strong enough to have me crawling back for more. And as I leaned downward to kiss my bride, bitterness filled the treacherous organ, my heart, as I knew that I would never achieve that tender form of love.

True love was never mine to keep.

And so the birds sang, and the sky remained crystal clear, but my heart remained his, a treacherous organ indeed, for no matter how often I called for its return, it never came.

* * *

  
Thank you Drue, or Phoenix_Flames at hpff, for editing this chapter!


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